


two for joy

by Emamel



Series: nothing is real 'til it's gone [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Canon-Typical Violence, Daemon Prejudice, Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emamel/pseuds/Emamel
Summary: It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Jaskier had seen barely a fraction of the same world as Geralt. For all of his learning, for all of his stories and songs, for every book he’d memorised, he had barely left his corner of the continent before they’d met. And travel alone was not the same as travel with a witcher - the dangers came from different places, places that Jaskier hadn’t yet learnt to be vigilant of.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: nothing is real 'til it's gone [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636618
Comments: 132
Kudos: 1692





	two for joy

**Author's Note:**

> This was frustrating, in that there was One Scene of Geralt finally talking about his daemon that I desperately wanted to include but I still haven't figured out if I want it to be Geralt or Jaskier's POV or alternating, and this was already getting quite long enough so I've set it aside for now. It took about two days to actually write this and three days to decide on a name for Renfri's daemon, which is pretty standard for me tbh. Also, I had to figure out how I wanted to write the inside of Geralt's head, because I've started reading the books, and he talks. All. The time. So I've portrayed him as doing the same thing I do, which is be very verbose and eloquent in his head, and then something gets lost in translation on the way to his mouth and what comes out is, at best, a grunt and something vaguely sarcastic
> 
> On the upside, the absolute outpouring of love for this series has been astonishing, I really hope I can continue to live up to your expectations! Mostly I'm glad that so many people like Ness, or at least that anyone who doesn't has been good enough not to say so in the comments. I feel love in this chilis tonight!

Geralt was used to the quiet, though he knew truthfully just how loud the world was. In constant motion; he could hear the breeze drift gently through the empty branches, the echoing steady thump of Roach’s heart, the slow rush of still water being displaced by something heavy. Something monstrous.

From the corner of his eye, he could see movement, but he had learnt by now not to turn and look. There would be nothing there. There never was.

Nothing but Dust.

And it shouldn’t matter, it  _ didn't _ matter, because there was  _ nothing _ moving beside him - but there  _ was _ something moving in the water. The thick taste of old blood at the back of his throat had led him here from the road, tainted by the brackish-metal tang of a kikimora worker; even the film of Blizzard and Cat on his tongue wasn’t enough to entirely rid him of it. He had only found signs of one - a relief, as he’d had neither true sleep nor a good meal in days, and even he would hesitate to take on a colony in such a state. 

Beneath his skin, his muscles thrummed like a tuning fork struck too hard. His hand twisted restlessly around his sword, but he was otherwise motionless. Underwater or not, a kikimora would feel the ripples of his movement; would take the opportunity to strike, and he knew better than to let himself be put immediately on the defensive. Especially when the potions were still working their way through his blood, not yet at full potential.

In the distance, a twig broke; a bird called; a vole returned to its nest. The world was quiet, it was too quiet, but not quiet  _ enough _ .

Geralt had not known quiet for a long time; had learnt the shape of it in the long years since.

In the corner of his eye, something moved. Geralt made the mistake of moving with it, a mirrored image, a quickly aborted and half-complete gesture. At his side, the Dust coalesced, bright and almost imperceptible, even now. A shape almost took form - familiar for a fraction of a second before a claw tore through it and scattered the particles back to the night air. Geralt shook his head - he  _ needed  _ to focus. The only things moving were him and the kikimora. It didn’t matter what he saw - he knew what he could smell, could hear, could  _ feel. _

There was nothing else there. There never was.

He knew better than to expect a warm welcome, but he had hoped he would be able to conduct his business in peace. Despite the black blood that he could still smell caked into his boots over the thick scents of human-and-daemon layered deep into the foundations of the inn, despite the crowds that hushed and then hissed as he passed through the streets unaccompanied except by his horse, despite the spitting cats and the screaming child with his trembling daemon, he had hoped to be left alone.

The quiet that flooded the room when Geralt stepped across the threshold was damning. 

Maybe he should have taken the White Honey after all - his sight had settled, but he could still hear with crystal clarity the way hearts started to race all through the room, could smell the salt-sour of fear sweat that soaked palms as the potions burned their way through him. But he was down to his last vial, and it was a time-consuming potion to make - or an expensive one to commission, and he had neither time nor coin to spare these days.

At the bar, a rat watched him with glittering eyes. The barmaid watched him too, with more curiosity - less fear. She even offered him a smile when he placed the notice on the bar, rapping it twice with gloved fingers. Her daemon - and it was her daemon, the scent identical, if muted - ran up inside her sleeve, and came to rest at her collarbone, still staring warily at him.

He was covered neck to floor, as much skin as possible hidden the way Vesemir had taught him, and still daemons couldn’t stand to be near him. It put people at ease, Vesemir had always said, to know that there was no chance a witcher could accidentally touch their daemon. Perhaps that had been true, once; but witchers grew scarcer with every passing year, and as their numbers dwindled, so too did people’s faith in them. Geralt was willing to bet that not a soul in the town had seen a witcher in the flesh before.

To his right, tension shuddered through a group of men and half-elves; they were huddled so close together around their table that Geralt wouldn’t be able to tell which daemon was whose, were it not for their scents. Something like envy crawled down his spine, ice-cold and sickly. So many years gone, so many memories lost and hazy, and he still couldn’t shake the early days of Kaer Morhen - children and daemons pressed tight-knit against the biting wind, uncaring of bared hands or cheeks pressed against thick fur.

The shame was learnt later - too late. By then it didn’t matter anymore. There were no more children; no more daemons. Only witchers, and precious few of them at that.

No more -

One of the men - a human - pushed himself up, chin tilted up and shoulders back to give an impression of height and breadth. By his side a wild sow tossed her head - she was not his daemon, Geralt noted with detached curiosity. An intimidation tactic, one that spoke of long years and deep trust. It would be touching, he thought, if not for the naked disgust in their eyes. If not for the pointed way they looked him over, searching for a daemon they knew they wouldn’t find. If not for the scent of blood, old and fresh, that clung to their hands and their clothing; faint, but not faint enough to escape a witcher’s notice. 

“Can you not leave it alone for a moment?”

This new voice came from behind him. It was no less commanding for the exhaustion heavy on each word; cowed, the man averted his eyes though his mouth remained pulled into a vicious sneer. Geralt didn’t turn - no matter what, his back would be exposed to someone, but there was a certain satisfaction to be had in watching the man wilt. He listened with half an ear as she dismissed the barkeep, and reprimanded her companion - she sounded like someone accustomed to being obeyed without question, through fear, or loyalty, or love, or all three perhaps.

“I apologise,” she said, and her voice lilted slightly as she addressed Geralt. Some of the pointed edges softened - not gone, but disguised well. “For my man’s interference in your day. Hopefully he can improve his behaviour by tomorrow’s market.”

Geralt imagined there would be consequences if he did not.

The man didn’t slink away from him with his tail between his legs; if nothing else, Geralt found he could respect that. But still, Geralt waited until he had returned to his seat and the woman - Renfri, if the man was to be believed - had ordered beer for them both to turn away, back to the bar. He could see her from the corner of his eye - dark curls hacked short that still hid half of her face, the movement of her hands quick and sharp as she picked at the plate in front of her. A bird, half-tangled in her hair, sat on her shoulder.

She met his gaze and smiled, wry and lopsided. Her daemon watched him, eyes beady and bright over a small, hooked beak.

“You want some breakfast?” She offered after he had watched her a few moments too long. Her voice was curious, light, and she didn’t shift uncomfortably under his stare. Humans, for the most part, found his eyes unsettling. Those that didn’t liked them a little too much for comfort. He blinked slowly, waiting for any other reaction, listening for the rhythmic thump of her heart quickening, but there was nothing. 

“I’m full,” he said at last, turning to stare instead at his clenched hand on the bar. “Vension.” The leather was beginning to wear thin. He should’ve skinned the deer, sold it to a tannery, but he’d gone long enough without food that he didn’t want to wait long enough to properly butcher the poor thing. As it was, he wouldn’t be able to afford a new pair for a while, unless the alderman was feeling particularly generous. 

Geralt took slow mouthfuls of his beer, not because he was worried about the swill getting him drunk, but because he couldn’t bear to taste more than a swallow at a time. Smell and taste were always the last of his senses to return to normal, but even a human had to know that this was barely drinkable. He watched her gulp back her own, impressed, and when she turned to him with an amicable smile, he found himself replying in kind, mouth twitching up into something like a smile that he knew often left people shuddering. A person grinning without a daemon showing their joy by their side was often considered a shit actor, and Geralt had no daemon to reflect or belie his words and expressions.

Neither Renfri nor her daemon seemed bothered.

“So what brings you to Blaviken, white hair?” She asked. Her daemon cocked his head, and burrowed himself deeper into her hair. “Hunting a monster?”

Geralt huffed a breath through his nose, the barest indication of amusement. 

The conversation was stilted, but Geralt found he couldn’t help himself from glancing over at them, again and again. Something about Renfri and her daemon had him on edge, though he couldn’t put a name to what it was. When she stepped near to pour him a second drink, her daemon leaned in close; closer to his exposed throat than he was accustomed to any daemon being. He tensed, watching them both warily, but Renfri’s stance was still relaxed, her daemon otherwise still.

“Cigydd, I think you’re making the witcher uncomfortable,” she said, face tilted back as she shared a secretive smile with him. “Apologies, white hair. We never did learn proper manners.”

The smile faltered, and slid away in pieces when a girl pushed her way into Geralt’s space, her fox daemon dragging at her heels. For a moment, Geralt weighed the benefits of telling her the kikimora wasn’t for sale - of staying here and talking to Renfri, and letting Cigydd be near him without the reek of fear souring the air as it did when most people and their daemons pretended to be comfortable in his presence. But he glanced down - caught sight of his gloves, of the half-empty tankard, of his ragged sleeves, and it made the decision for him. He couldn’t afford not to make some coin here, especially not as winter started to sink its claws into the landscape. He didn’t plan on returning to Kaer Morhen this year, but that meant finding a way to survive the long months of scarce prey and freezing weather.

Renfri watched him as he turned away, Cigydd murmuring in her ear as he went.

Days later, he could still hear the murmuring.

Cigydd was little more than movement in his periphery - Geralt couldn’t see him when he turned to face him directly. The little shrike had followed him silently from Blaviken as the townspeople watched in mute horror, barely a shade; Geralt had almost put a dagger through Stregobor’s wrist when he reached out as though to grab the daemon from the air. Renfri had died choking on her blood, the harsh whispers of prophecy echoed by Cigydd at her side. But even as Geralt listened to her heart stop, even as her last breath rattled in her chest, the daemon remained; first with his head tucked down against the cooling skin of her cheek, and then following Geralt as he stood, slow and aching. The bird had swooped beside him, too close to arms left bare by his frenzied rush into town. He had left his armour beside Roach, hadn’t even considered it until he was already walking through the quiet streets and people drew their daemons behind them as he passed.

His leg was almost healed now, days later, but the knife had gone deep and the scar would be permanent. Cigydd had watched him bandage it, and curiously eyed the purple bruising across his back where stones had struck. He didn’t speak to Geralt, and Geralt never saw him talk, but he heard the whispers that followed him.

_ The girl in the woods. She is your destiny. _

_ We will be with you always. _

Geralt knew better than to waste one of his remaining potions, especially when he had so few left; yet he knew that the next time he took one, he would see two shapes in the Dust.

Jaskier and Ongalness were rarely quiet, and never silent.

Geralt hadn’t known, the first time they met, quite what to make of them. Of the bard, so damnably young, who knew so much about so many things, and yet nothing of the world. Of his daemon, who hopped close on the table and spoke directly to him, brazenly meeting his eye and refusing to look away. 

The last time a daemon had come so close had been -

There had been no fear of her touching him, at first. She kept some small distance from him as he moved, and he was covered almost completely in thick leathers that left him uncomfortably warm even in the cool mountain air - a distance that dwindled so rapidly in the early weeks of their travel that it made his head spin and his breath run short. All the while, Jaskier sat beside him, uncaring; strumming his lute, or taking notes in his book, or running scales, or cheerfully reminiscing with Ongalness over the foolish things they had done in their youth.

He waited, and he waited; for the moment she realised she had hopped one time too many, had come too close to him. For the moment Jaskier pulled her back, withdrew himself and realised the dangers that came of following a witcher.

He waited. And he waited.  


“Honestly, Geralt, how  _ did _ you manage without us?” Jaskier asked, loud in the unnerving quiet that always settled after a battle; the levity in his voice was strained and shaking as he pressed harder against the wound in Geralt’s shoulder. It was deep, and wide, and messy, and already he could feel the surrounding flesh warm and swell with the beginnings of infection. Blood oozed freely around Jaskier’s fingers, the wound too large to stem the bleeding even with both hands; his mouth twisted as he pressed harder. Geralt couldn’t hold back the grunt of pain, not when he was already so focused on watching Jaskier, on making sure his eyes didn’t stray even for a moment. He opened his mouth - to tell Jaskier that he had managed perfectly well for almost a century, to snap that he never got himself in so much trouble when he travelled alone, to apologise for the fear he could smell rolling from the man in waves, to beg him to look away and forget he’d seen Geralt like this.

The words wouldn’t come, and Jaskier hushed him in quick, desperate little hisses, pressing down harder again until the edges of his vision turned white. A blessing in disguise.

Two birds flitted behind Jaskier’s head, and only one of them was a hallucination.

“Here, here, I found it!” Ongalness cried, shrill and panicked as Jaskier hadn’t allowed himself to be. It was always harder for a daemon to lie. “Geralt, Geralt, is this it? Is it the right one?”

He forced his eyes to focus on her, only her - in her claws, she clutched a glass vial, and it took Geralt a moment to sort through his screaming mind and recognise Kiss. He grunted, as close to an affirmation as he could manage, and had to grit his teeth against a scream as he shifted. Jaskier’s breath caught, and he babbled something in Geralt’s ear that he couldn’t separate into words. One hand moved, lifted the pressure from his shoulder, and a fresh rivulet of hot blood ran down his side to soak into the dirt.

Another scream built in his throat as he felt himself be lifted, pushed and heaved until a solid weight settled behind him and held him upright. His head rolled, and dropped back to rest against Jaskier’s neck when he could no longer keep it up himself. Jaskier’s breath was warm and soft against his hair, apologies threaded with reassurances and praise. It was unnecessary, all of it - he had survived worse, would no doubt do so again until he finally couldn’t anymore. He was a witcher; it was the way things were. He didn’t need all of this - this, this  _ gentleness _ to heal, only potions, and rest, and time. Fingers still danced frantically around his face though, pushing back his hair, and stroking too fast to be soothing down the line of his cheeks as Ongalness worked the cork free of the bottle with her clever beak and talons. He could hear the rush of air as her wings beat, as she flapped close enough for Jaskier to reach for the Kiss. At her side, Dust broke apart, reformed, and for a moment mirrored her movements - a second bird with a hooked beak watching him with beady eyes, before it was gone again.

Jaskier held the glass to his mouth, and he drank it down greedily. The effect was not immediate, but it was quick - relief seeped through his veins and slowed the flow of blood, enough that a tight bandage would be enough to stop it entirely. He sagged back against Jaskier’s warmth, too exhausted to try and hold himself up. 

The black annis’ had been especially vicious, and he’d been taken by surprise. There had barely been enough time to throw back a mouthful of Blizzard before they were upon the camp - his silver sword had been close to hand as it always was, but his sudden fumble as he tried to reach around Ongalness where she sat in frozen horror had made him slow, made him clumsy. He’d started the fight on the wrong foot, and things only ever got worse when that happened. There were only three of them, but they were quick, and Geralt was unaccustomed to fighting with a human at his back. He had struggled to keep them all at bay; knocking them back with aard granted him a precious few seconds, but one had lumbered up faster than thought, had lunged towards Jaskier. It was only his heightened reflexes that allowed him to shoulder the bard out of the way.

He had thought he felt feathers tangle in his hair, but the impression was there and gone in an instant, and he had more pressing things to worry about. Mainly the rows of teeth sunk deep into his flesh.

The rest of the fight passed in a blur. He had managed to slit that first one open belly to jaw with his silver dagger, and rolled it off him before it had a chance to realise it was dead. He had stood, Melitele only knew how, and charged the remaining two with a hoarse yell, drawing their focus away from where Jaskier and Ongalness had scrambled away until he had backed against a tree. By his side, the Dust swarmed and leapt at them with fangs and claws, for all the good it would do. They charged ahead, oblivious, and Geralt cleaved the first almost in two with a ferocity that stunned even him. Teeth bared and every breath a snarl in his throat, he almost fell to his knees when the final black annis attacked him, too quick to evade as his blood pooled beneath him, hot and thick. His head was pounding, his shoulder shrieked, and it took him a long, long minute of grappling before he managed to hack the hideous head off it’s fucked-up shoulders.

After that, his memory was a little hazy. He knew that Jaskier and Ongalness had crept away from the tree by inches, until he swayed where he stood, and something seemed to snap. It was lucky, he thought, that the beasts were truly dead. He didn’t think he’d be capable of warning them away if one was still kicking.

He had managed to stand under his own power until Jaskier had reached out - he sunk heavily to the ground, sagging against firm hands. He must have told them which potion he needed, but all he remembered of the conversation was Jaskier’s voice, thin and strangled. Against his side, an almost imperceptible weight pressed, and he knew better than to look.

And then there had been Kiss, coating his mouth, soothing down his throat - suddenly, he could breathe again. The bleeding slowed to a trickle, and though Geralt could have sworn he only blinked, when he next opened his eyes, it was daylight. Bemusedly, he blinked up at the clear sky. Somewhere close, he could hear the soft murmur of Jaskier and Ongalness - the pair talked almost constantly, even when they had nothing to say, and the sound had become as familiar to him as his own breath. As -

Geralt tried to push himself upright, and hissed between his teeth; a glance down showed strips of bandage, wrapped tight and uneven around his shoulder. He wondered how long it had taken Jaskier to maneuver him, how badly his hands had shaken as they slipped through the blood to try and clean the wound and wrap it tight. The work was shoddy, unpracticed, but then, before meeting Geralt the bard had likely never had to bandage anyone in his life. It had done the trick, though, he had to admit - though the skin still felt hot and taught, the pungent-sick-sweet smell of infection had faded.

He twisted his head, looking for any sign of the bard or his pied daemon, but they were nowhere in sight. Their voices were close by, though, so he allowed himself to slump back, smiling wryly at the sight of Roach, resting a back leg and half asleep where she stood. There was a time that he would have relied on her to bring his pack when he was too injured to stand - there was a reason he only ever tied her to weak, easily snapped branches. A witcher's horse had to be fearless, and well trained, and he knew that she wouldn't bolt unless he gave the word. But it was nice, he reflected, to have someone else nearby capable of staunching the flow of blood, of rifling through his bags, of bandaging him when he slipped from consciousness.

It was nice, he reflected, to have someone else nearby. 

People recognised them collectively now, as they entered new towns. Jaskier's songs raced around the continent far quicker than they ever could, and Geralt found himself more and more the subject of questioning and speculation the moment he lowered his hood. Those who once would have shrunk at the very idea of a witcher lodging at the same inn now came to him bold as brass to ask for more details on the song, you know, the one about the wyvern, or the manticore, or the siren, or the graveir. Daemons sat on shoulders to stare at him, crept close behind ankles, watched with expressions that were bright and only a little afraid. Sometimes Geralt answered those questions, slow and fragmented, eyeing them warily and waiting for the moment they turned. Sometimes he hadn't the patience, and told the lot of them to fuck off.

That evening, his patience had run dry alarmingly fast. He had not slept in days, and even his meditation had been interrupted by howling gales and the distant shriek of a nightwraith. They were lucky that between them they had enough coin for a room, meals, and bath when they arrived, but it did little to improve Geralt's foul mood.

And with his lack of patience came a certain frustration at the way the townspeople stared - at him, at Ongalness, at Jaskier. No matter how much good will Jaskier had managed to drum up for him, no matter how unafraid people believed they were, the fact was they were still wary of a witcher in their midst. It was better now than it had been in the spring - Jaskier had found himself a comfortable court and generous patron to winter with, while Geralt had steeled himself and returned to Kaer Morhen for the first time in years. It wasn't the first time they had separated since Jaskier had started travelling with him, but it was by far the longest. By the time he reunited with the bard, news of his good deeds had started to fade from people's minds to be replaced by a lifetime of mistrust.

(Eskel had thought the entire situation hilarious, and had made a point of finding the most echoing chambers of the keep to start belting the Ballad of the White Wolf. Geralt had rolled his eyes and pretended he didn't know how much his old friend loved the newfound tolerance for witchers across the continent.

He had asked if Geralt would be bringing his bard to Kaer Morhen next winter, and Geralt had pretended the way he shuddered was at the thought of the mischief they would get into. That the thought of bringing Jaskier and Ongalness to this frozen place where daemons entered but did not leave didn’t make him sick to his stomach.)

Geralt took a seat as close to Jaskier as he could to watch the bard perform - he couldn’t remember quite when he had stopped hiding himself away in the darkened corners, only that Jaskier had hounded him over it, and Ongalness had eloquently made her point by flying back and forth from his table to Jaskier through entire performances, leaving the two of them grimacing every time they were more than a few feet apart. Not that he should have let himself be swayed - he knew that their bond could stretch further than that without discomfort, just as well as he knew that Ongalness did not have to rest by his side while Jaskier sang. But after only a few nights of their bizarre dance, he had surrendered, and glared his way to a table scant feet from where Jaskier would be playing. 

Now Ongalness didn’t even put up a pretense of hovering close to Jaskier; instead she settled herself on the table beside Geralt’s arm to chatter brightly through the evening. It worked twofold on a night such as this, when Geralt couldn’t stand the thought of being accosted for stories of the daring witcher, the famous White Wolf. Her voice, a rapidfire rise-and-fall, was familiar in a way that he couldn’t put into words, and unspeakably soothing to his ragged nerves; and also, her glares when anyone stepped close enough to interrupt were ferocious indeed.

So Geralt listened with half an ear to the gentle lute and the filthy lyrics that it accompanied, head on one side as Ongalness reminisced over one of the feasts Jaskier had been invited to play at during the winter. He listened to them both, because it was better than listening to the fearful whispers that struck up when people saw him so close to Jaskier’s daemon.

Once, not long after he had caved and allowed the two to do as they pleased - as though he had ever had a say - he’d had to drag Jaskier spitting and swearing from a fight by the scruff of his doublet. His lip had been swollen and bleeding, along with a gash above his eyebrow; he had clearly been losing, but when he whirled to face Geralt, all of that fury and fire had been aimed suddenly at him. Geralt hadn’t known what to make of it, had glanced helplessly at Ongalness who deigned only to spit out the mouthful of fur she’d torn from a scrappy tomcat daemon. Jaskier had looked ready to, if not rip out Geralt’s throat with his nails, then at least try to punch him. So he’d held Jaskier at arm’s length, and watched warily as he panted.

“What were you thinking?” He asked finally, when he thought he might be able to get a straight answer. 

“You didn’t hear what they were saying about you,” Jaskier hissed, making as though he might try to force his way past Geralt for another round. Geralt tightened his grip just slightly, watching Ongalness from the corner of his eye to see if she flinched. He doubted Jaskier would even notice, he’d worked himself up to such a state. He waited until Jaskier looked back at him to raise a brow.

“Of course I heard what they said. They weren’t quiet.” Geralt sighed, relieved, as Jaskier eventually went limp in his grip. He didn’t let go, though. Didn’t want to risk it. 

“Jaskier, it’s the same thing everyone says, anywhere we go,” he said after a moment of Jaskier chewing silently at his split lip. 

The sudden scowl that overtook Jaskier’s features told him he’d made a fatal error. This was the same man that taunted the elves that had captured, bound, and beaten him while he was being captured, bound, and beaten. Geralt shouldn’t have expected anything different.

“And everyone is  _ wrong _ !” He’d cried. “Geralt if you - would you just - Geralt  _ let me go _ \- I’ll show them!”

“No Jaskier, what you’ll do is fuck off and calm down,” Geralt said sternly. 

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Jaskier had seen barely a fraction of the same world as Geralt. For all of his learning, for all of his stories and songs, for every book he’d memorised, he had barely left his corner of the continent before they’d met. And travel alone was not the same as travel with a witcher - the dangers came from different places, places that Jaskier hadn’t yet learnt to be vigilant of.

Ongalness settled herself on Jaskier’s shoulder, and he calmed some at her weight. She watched Geralt carefully for a few moments, before turning to gently nibble at Jaskier’s hair. He had grumbled and made as though to push her off, but never followed through.

“If you can’t handle the way people talk around me, or act, then you shouldn’t be here,” Geralt said finally, and pushed down the immediate sting of regret at the way Jaskier’s face  _ twisted _ . “If you go back in there and try to tell them you  _ like _ travelling with me, or you  _ trust _ me with your daemon, they aren’t going to think you’re speaking true, or of your own accord, they’re going to think I’ve used some witcher magic on you both. People have had generations, they’ve had hundreds of years to get that shit in their heads, so don’t think you’ll be the one to dig it out with a misplaced right hook, because it’s thinking like that that’ll get you killed.”

Jaskier had grouched, and complained, and hadn’t shut up about the cut on his face until they reached the next town, but Geralt did note that it didn’t take him long to start rapidly expanding his repertoire of witcher-songs. And as they travelled, and the songs continued to spread, the whispers grew fainter, even to Geralt’s ears. Fewer people were willing to say a cross word against the White Wolf, especially when the bard was playing his fucking heart out up in front of them.

But now, with Ongalness preening happily beside him, her feathers catching the light with the same pale blue-and-green of Jaskier’s eyes, with Geralt glowering fiercely at anyone who approached him without ale in their hand, the mutterings had started again. Quiet, and not at all as bad as he remembered them being, but more pointed now.

“What are they saying?” Ongalness asked, glancing up at him. He stared down, then followed her pointed gaze to his hand, which had clenched around his cup hard enough to warp the metal. He let go slowly.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, and she snorted. “If I tell you, you’ll only cause a scene, good Ongalness.”

“No, I’ll wait until Jaskier is finished, and then we’ll both cause a scene,” she replied, cocking her head as she stared about the room. “And don’t call me that, Jaskier only calls me that when he wants me to think I’m in trouble.”

“What, good?” Geralt asked, just to make her laugh, and she obliged.

“ _ Ongalness _ ,” she said, affecting the sort of highbrow accent noble families would use for scolding a misbehaving child. It was shockingly spot-on. “Jaskier only ever calls me Ness, it’s strange to hear you do otherwise.” Geralt’s mouth tilted into a wry little smile.

“You aren’t my daemon, generous Ongalness,” he said.

(He remembered, the two of them laughing and still furious, the first time they had seen Geralt turned away from a town. Remembered Ongalness’ fine-boned weight on his knee, her proclamation that Jaskier would have to win her back from Geralt now, that she had chosen him. Remembered Jaskier’s voice, teasing mock-disappointment as he proclaimed that it wouldn’t be so bad, to be a witcher’s, and Geralt had wanted, oh, he had  _ wanted. _ )

“Tell that to the idiots over there,” she said, shaking out her tail feathers irritably. Geralt reacted before he could help himself, and though he was quick to school his expression, he wasn’t quite quick enough. “Oh, so I was right? Fools.”

Geralt chuckled once, and shook his head. When he glanced up, he found his eyes drawn to Jaskier without conscious thought - the bard was nearing the end of his current repertoire, Geralt noted, and was probably seconds away from tumbling from his perch on the deep windowsill. A combination of tiredness, and the mouthfuls of sweetly spiced cider he snuck from patrons already too drunk to care. 

Even from such a distance, Geralt could smell it crisp on his tongue.

Jaskier looked up, and caught his eye with a grin, strumming the final few chords before he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and made his weaving way over. Geralt turned his attention back to his ale, and tried to pretend that he didn’t know how the cup had gotten so dented.

“Ah, my sweet muse, dearest melody!” He cried; Geralt was impressed that he could not only string together a sentence, but also how little he slurred as he did so. No wonder Ongalness had looked a little unsteady all evening. “And Ness, you’re here too! What has you both so sour on such a fine evening? My coin purse is full, my belly fuller, and the two of you are over here pretty as a picture!” Geralt gave him a glare that would make a lesser man shit himself. Jaskier laughed and stole his cup.

“People have been talking shit about Geralt,” Ongalness said quickly. Geralt rolled his eyes, and lifted an obliging arm with a heavy sigh as Jaskier listed to one side in an attempt to turn and stare at the offenders. Jaskier slumped against his chest, apparently none too concerned with keeping himself upright, and continued to glare from the eye that wasn’t mashed against Geralt’s armour.

“And what, beloved Ness, did you propose we do about it?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Geralt interrupted. “Because we’ve already paid for a room and I don’t want to lose it when you two start a fucking riot. Are you finished?”

This, he addressed solely to Jaskier, who groaned exaggeratedly as he slumped further down and eventually laid his head against the table. His lute was still clutched to his side, but the case had been left with Geralt for the evening, and he carefully plucked the instrument from his hands to tuck it away. Jaskier put up only minimal resistance, even when Geralt stood and slung it over his shoulder to rest with his swords.

“Come on. Early start, tomorrow,” he said, softer than he intended. 

Jaskier lifted one wavering hand, and Geralt used it to pull him to his feet. He seemed a lot less surefooted now than he had before, and he toppled into Geralt as soon as he was upright. Geralt, for whom this was becoming an alarming regular occurrence, allowed him to loop both arms around his neck, and took the majority of his weight. With one arm wrapped carefully about Jaskier’s waist, this left one arm free between them. Ongalness, who was no fool even when her human was exceptionally tired and drunk, realised this and tilted her head back in a challenge. The stubborn glint in her eye was identical to the gleam he so often saw in Jaskier’s, and though Geralt could be patient when it suited him, he found himself giving in and reaching down.

His arm was covered in linen, and wool, and thick leather. His hand from the wrist down was covered only in scars.

“Well then, Ness?” He asked, and her fluttering leap onto his arm was nothing short of smug. 


End file.
